From the time that I was a small child my father represented a distant figure, only moving closer when he thought he wanted my sister and me to do as he declared which, left us without options, unless we wanted to see his wrath. All too often, we walked on tender eggshells making sure we did nothing to disrupt the peace of the day, thus leaving our childhood at the door and becoming something akin to a Stepford sons or daughters. Later, after I left home, he seemed to worsen at times–his gruff appraisals and rough demands would often make my sister and I happy to leave; or at worst never wanting to return. As the years multiplied we noticed slightly more quieter times were evolving until during the last year of his life most of the gruff exterior disintegrated and he became less distant; yet I always felt somewhere deep inside of him there were many conflicting stories.
My mother, on the other hand, is gentler, if not almost suffocating in her need to extend protection and love, while also being too sensitive, too delicate, and too needy. I often compared her to a Mother robin fussing over her young, feeding, protecting and nurturing, but not wanting to let go. Even though Momma is fragile and psychologically needy, she has always had the mental strength to endure. I remember the night, when I was very small and very frightened, she held me during a thunderstorm, telling me of all its wonders, while all the time being unbelievably frightened.
Many years have passed since I lived in their house and during those years, I had often thought of the two of them as one gruff, stern and distant, the other gentle, needy, and fragile. Both continually appeared to control my sister and I, yet, I used to question why had I been able choose the direction for my life and leave the coddled and controlled nest so easily? Why had they never stopped me from going in any particular direction and how could they support all my decisions? Why was I never guilty about leaving them all alone on the farm so many years ago? Moreover, what was it that gave me the strong sense of curiosity that I have always had; curiosity–the one important ingredient you need if you want to succeed in unknown ground?
Much later in my life, I carefully studied their actions during my childhood, adolescence, and teen years and I realized my father’s distant wrath was rage at his domineering mother, while my mother’s sensitive fragility in motion was set in motion by a Mother who was very selfish and doled love out only when she received something. Each lived within the shadow of strong parental prisons, and somehow broke partially free to become determined that their children would not experience the same suffocation as they had. Their control was merely a facade, an outward cover they had to develop to cope with their early lives, a facade not easily broken without professional help.
Deeply seated within each of them was a burning desire to ensure that their children had the freedom to choose their own destiny. Our parents gave us the basic values of good, the tragedies of evil, and the cognitive tools for evaluating and determining our own lives. Possibly these values and abilities were given to us in daily lessons we received from them. Maybe the discomfort and frustration we felt was necessary to understand. Although, and more importantly, my sister and I received an unspoken spirit tenderly placed in our hearts- -our freedom.
When I decided to have this blog it was because I previously had two blogs that had very specific themes. I longed for a blog that I could include anything I wanted it it. I closed one of my blogs and started this one “A Gathering of Words” which allows me to tell stories, give out recipes, discuss some of the art I have made and include any new ideas for a post I may have. The following remembrance was written a few years ago while we lived in Arizona. I wrote it for a dear friend who had died. I include it here because Lee was special and unusual to me. And I know where ever she reigns this post will make her as pleased as possible.
I met Lee when she opened a Cafe in Plaza Del Lago, Willmette, Illinois. I had a bakery there at the same time. We spent many hours together……..sometimes helping each other or at our homes setting over a bottle of scotch. We also traveled to England and enjoyed an unbelievable month’s vacation in a mews residence. She was a special person and she will always be remembered.
To Remember Lee–the memories fill my heart!!
Three stately Saguaro cacti reign serenely over the Prickly Pear Cacti, Yucca, Barrel Cacti, Palo Verde, Texas Mesquite, and Creosote plants on our north desert lawn, each bearing open scars collected as the years have passed, (now filled with Morning Dove, Woodpecker and Sparrow nests). Walking beneath their giant arms cause me to reflect and question the cycle of life; a tiny seed sprouted, stood the test of time and survives in a harsher habitat for years longer than humans can. I stand in their court feeling their presence, gaining an understanding of their serenity, and receiving a certain sense of wisdom allowing me to understand the complexities of life.
My dear friend, Lee was one of the few people I knew who equaled the Saguaro’s unique serenity. Stalwart, yet understandingly gentle, Lee reigned, serenely when giants stood in her way, spread her arms providing refuge for those who needed a comforting breast, and pushed you forward whenever necessary. She, like the Saguaro had passed the test of time; seen and understood the intricacies of life, and embraced life’s accidental happenings by using them as lessons of enrichment.
Stand to close to the Saguaros, forgetting their existence, and they will teach you quickly to be careful. Just as the Saguaro will pierce your skin with its needles, Lee’s defense would always be a lesson for her offender. After listening to a belligerent customer’s unfounded remark she quietly responded, “I can only be as pleasant as you allow me to be…” Uniquely simple as the Saguaro’s needle, her answer was a morsel of wisdom.
Lee is no longer alive, yet as the Saguaro passes and leaves its awesome unforgettable skeleton, Lee’s passing has left me with a legacy of infinite memories providing a treasury of wisdom.
EPILOGUE
The following two recipes are from Lee’s cookbook, Lagniappe. Please Enjoy!
SWEET POTATO PIE
Since Opelousas is the Yam Capital of the world, our house was never without baked yams. The syrup oozed out of the skins as they baked. A large pan of yams was put into the oven every morning as regular as clockwork. One took a yam and ate it out of hand as one would an apple. They are delicious cold, at least those yams were!
For the pie, mix:
½ cup dark brown sugar
½ teaspoon salt
¼ teaspoon allspice
Beat and add to sugar:
3 eggs
1 cup milk
Add:
1½ cups mashed yams. canned or fresh
1 tablespoon lemon juice
1 teaspoon vanilla
Mix and bake in unbaked pie shell for 15 minutes at 425 degrees and then at 325 degrees for 80 minutes or until center tests done.
GOOBER PRALINES
We shelled the peanuts and put them into the oven to dry. This was a simple, cheap and quick candy —after the peanuts were shelled. The youngest shelled and the oldest cooked the sugar.
Place in a heavy iron pan or skillet on low flame:
2 cups sugar
Stir constantly with a wooden spoon.
When sugar has become a thin golden syrup remove from flame. Stir in:
1½ cup shelled nuts
1 heavy pinch salt
Spread on ungreased tin to harden. When cool, break into pieces.
When I was growing up on my parent’s farm, shortly after I turned twelve, my father announced that I was to take care of the chickens. I always felt our relationship was not the greatest, but on this day, I felt he had it in for me. I hated chickens because of their two little mean eyes centered with a nasty, pointed, dangerous, intimidating beak! I thought how cruel he was to make me encounter a hundred beaks a day, particularly when he knew I felt so uncomfortable around them! That night, I did not sleep much; visions of pecking beaks dominated my mind. God, I hated those chickens and try as I might to delay the inevitable, my father’s bark encouraged me to quickly undertake my new chore. Within a few days, my worst fear became reality because every time I neared a chicken setting on eggs, I got a hurtful, memorable peck! Thankfully, when she could, my mother gathered the eggs while I fed the chickens.
Regardless, as I grew older, the chicken beak became any beak and often, while shopping at a pet store, I began skirting the parrot cage, cringing if I had to walk near the open perch. I remember a time at the San Diego Zoo after I sauntered into the Bird Aviary I realized where I was and panicked as I looked for the exit. The guards stopped me, as I noisily scurried from the enclosure, to tell me I was disturbing the tranquility of the birds.
One sunny day, while I was near our Ramada, I heard a funny little noise. Curiously, I followed the row of Oleanders to the base of the Ramada, where I found a little bird and attached to the bird was a little beak.It looked so helpless and I realized it must have fallen from the palm tree next to the Ramada. I whispered aloud, “Okay, calm yourself, its just a little thing, it’s more frightened of you than you are of him”, yet down deep, I knew the tiny little bird was a big bad wolf.
An hour and a half passed before I had enough nerve to pick the little thing up with heavy work gloves. I wore them to protect myself if the tiny, newborn beak transformed into a nasty, old chicken beak. With shaking hands, a lump in my throat and my heart beating irregularly I hesitantly placed the little bird into a box I had prepared. As I walked to the kitchen with the box, I took a moment to sigh, and questioned what to do next. As I arrived at the kitchen door, I thought that this tiny little guy needed nourishment if I wanted him to live.
Without much, more thought I looked up government and private agencies for the care of wild birds to ask if they could give me any information on how to care for the bird. The answers from all the agencies were similar suggesting I leave the baby bird on the ground where I found it and leave it to die! Although, I was stunned by their answers, I returned to the box to tell the bird it was time for me to think up how ad what to feed me. Soon, I remembered M’s collection of syringes in storage and decided to see if a syringe of warm, Cream of Rice might interest him. The cooked cereal was his first gourmet meal and my first lesson in how to feed a baby pigeon—At the end of the feeding, I wore more of the cereal on my shirt and pants than I got down his little throat. The following day I bought strained, baby cereal and oatmeal with peaches and maple syrup became his favorite.
The first evening was trying for both the bird and me. I continually imagined this little, tiny creature could do something damaging to the house or me. Now, I find I was foolish to keep the box and the tiny bird, which could not move, in the garage the first night. Continually I got up to check on him, and each time I heard little cries coming from the box. Fortunately, for both of us, I started keeping him in the kitchen.The box and his blanket were his safe haven.
to his new caretaker and home. Many times, I thought I was doing everything wrong and feared he would not make it. As the days passed, he became stronger and quickly began to recognize me as I came up to his home. When his strength increased, he was lively, yet trusting and waiting to copy what I wanted him to do. When I realized this, I thought I might have made a mistake keeping him. I feared he might not develop correctly if he only looks to me for guidance.
The fear lasted only a week and during those days and I began to trust that he would develop if I thought of him first in every thing he and I did together. He grew very quickly and as with babies I continually I needed to prepare or think of different foods. Besides the staples, I decided he needed new accommodations. The first time I tried to change boxes was a disaster. He did not want to leave his first home. In the old, home all he needed was a little blanket. I furnished his second home with a new blanket, food area and container for water. I soon realized he needed his old blanket to feel safe and at home.
He also needed a name and became Skeeter. I realized that even if he had bonded to me for his mother that I also, had quickly bonded to him. As he grew, he developed a rich, glistening black coat of feathers.Not only was he handsome, he became a little showoff and enjoyed a scampering around the desk or floor wherever I was sitting. He enjoyed following me around the yard, which was truly a sight to see a small, iridescent black pigeon walking behind me, or enjoyed sitting on my shoulder as I worked in the garden.
Then, one day I realized Skeeter needed flying lessons, and I was to be his instructor. Alternatively, maybe I needed to be his mother and guide him as he tried. The first session went better than I thought it would.Skeet loved to play on top of the flat, bamboo basket, but was less than happy as I tossed him in the air.We did this exercise a few times, when suddenly from high above another pigeon came close to the basket and shrieked at Skeeter. It was his real mother telling him what to do. Skeeter did much better with her suggestions!
As Skeeter reached adulthood the little courtyard off the master bedroom became his home. He spends a lot of time visiting his mother, father, and baby brothers and sisters high in the palm tree, but like clock work he is always backing in the courtyard at 8:30 a.m. and 4:00 p.m. He returns for breakfast or dinner, a super meal of gourmet seeds. Each time he eats the high house walls around the perimeter of the courtyard hold a line of birds, particularly, Morning Doves waiting to surge down on the leftovers. When he is finished eating, Skeeter jumps up on my shoulder where he delights in pecking my neck, ears, and head as he hears me giggle. He has changed how I think of birds and I know that not all birds have the awful beaks that the bad chicken god makes. Skeeter’s beak is soft, warm, and friendly!
He became an integral part of the family and even though we had a cat, they seemed to get along. When I was in the office, which also opened on the courtyard, Skeeter always wanted in to set on my shoulder as I typed as the cat lounged on top of the screen. He also had a very stylish home built on the top of courtyard wall. I started to notice he had a visitor. A smaller, duller pigeon, which I finally realized, was a girlfriend. They began dating and in a very short time, when I was setting out in the courtyard, I noticed they were bickering. Skeeter tried to entice the girlfriend into his home, but she would not budge. He also would fly between her and I, and then landed on my lap. I cannot imagine that he understood that I knew what the problem was, but as I petted him, I told him to go and have fun and not to feel bad that they were going to be a couple. Eventually he flew back to her and they flew away. The courtyard seemed so quiet and I felt sad, yet happy that I had been able to raise Skeeter and now he was proving that human, trained birds could return to their rightful place in the open sky.
A week later Skeeter and his mate returned for a visit. He soared down to sit one my shoulder to nibble and chatter in my ear. Then, he jumped onto my lap, hopped up on my tummy, and crawled up my chest to give me a peck on the lips. It was his final good bye. In a moment, Skeeter flew off to his mate. They surrounded the house a few times and then flew off to make a life for themselves!
Each year when our birthdays rolled around Momma started making plans. Rarely did her plans only include the immediately family because there was a grand array of extended family and friends to invite. To not have Uncles or cousins and friends at our house for special occasions would have been strange.
It would have been even stranger if Momma only served Coffee, Cake and Ice Cream. This was her stage and she often became the queen of the festivities when one of her new dishes became the hit of the party. Finally, she would say to herself that their approval was enough to prove that the time spent clipping recipes from the newspaper was necessary. I also think Momma liked the rumble of noise and activity rising from the people seated around the large dining room table.
In the fifties boutique foods were not known, nor did you need to decide between organic or regular. Most people that lived in our little community were “meat and taters” folk and they never attempted to buy or make anything new. I don’t think too many women collected cookbooks or considered subscribing to a home and food magazine. Their basic recipes were all they needed, although some women had the most delicious, one of a kind creations.
My paternal grandmother was one of those women, but she also loved to experiment with food preparation. She required guests and family to be willing to accept a variety of taste treats at her table. Any one who shunned a dish didn’t get by with it! Grandma’s precedent allowed my mother to continue the same philosophy and it worked because she was a good cook.
My grandmother and the community had a hard time accepting my mother since she was not from the same little town. In fact, my mother was from Illinois and to make it even worse she was Italian. The citizens of the little town and the surrounding farmers never accepted someone new. Unknowingly my grandmother helped my mother to become part of the family and welcomed in town. If she ever knew how she helped my mother, I am sure she would have been upset and even angry!
Since my sister was twelve Momma thought that a tiered cake was appropriate. The cake needed to look impressive and pretty, but above all else; it needed to serve many people. First there was to be a dinner for family and some chosen young guests of my sister and then an open house for classmates and their families was held’
The guests at the open house and at dinner enjoyed a tasty yellow cake layered with three filling including fudge and walnut. As children, we looked forward when my mother made a birthday cake, because there were always plenty of trimmings from the tops of the cake layers ate. I always dipped a spatula into the butter cream frosting to spread some on my piece. My sister ate hers plain and if my mother had a small piece, she would slather it with soft, country butter,
The day before the birthday party Momma was up early. First she needed to take care of her daily chores on the farm, then make breakfast for my sister and I, take some time to sit with us as we ate, (which she always did regardless of her schedule) and afterward she began making the cakes. Since she wanted a tiered cake Momma needed to bake a large round cake for the bottom tier. Because any thing larger than an eight or 9-inch cake pan available Momma became creative. Whenever she wanted this big size, she used a 16″ round white, glazed dishpan with a bright red stripe around the perimeter of the pan. We always teased her about making the cake in a dishpan.
Within a short time, Momma had the batter made for one of the layers in the bottom tier. She always prepared the right amount of cake batter for each pan size. The cake went into the oven; the timer set and then Momma continued making more cake batter for the rest of the cake. I have always been amazed that all of this (the enlarging of recipes, the knowledge to know how much batter to make, the knowledge of how to set a tiered cake together and how to decorate a cake) came to Momma naturally. After I had grown, I looked at pictures of the many cakes that she had made. I asked her how she knew how to do all this and answered by saying: “Well, I just did it because I wanted to!” I think that if Momma had pondered the problems of building a tiered cake she would have never succeeded!
While the cake was baking and Momma was making more batter my sister had to get ready to leave for piano lessons and I became entranced, sitting on a chair at the kitchen table-watching Momma make the batter. I also was anxious in anticipation of seeing the big round cake come from the oven. Half way through the baking time a neighbor stopped in to see us. He lived on the farm next to ours. Momma gave him coffee and a homemade cinnamon roll while they chatted. Leon teased my mother and told her he smelled the cake burning. Momma knew how he teased and was ready not to over react. The timer sounded just before Leon was going to leave. Momma checked the cake, first with the finger test and then if the results were questionable she would use a toothpick to test the cake for doneness. She decided it needed a little more time and reset the timer. Leon, in the meantime was preparing to leave, but before he put his glove on he stuck his finger into the cake batter Momma had just made. SMAAAACK, Momma asked if he wanted another smack on his hand. Leon left with a smile on his face and cake batter smeared on his cheek.
The timer sounded again and this time Momma took the cake from the oven and set it on the cooling rack. The warm scents of butter, vanilla and egg rose from the cake making me hungry. Soon, enough time had passed so Momma could remove the cake from the pan. Deftly and quickly, Momma turned the cake out onto a cooling rack and then placed another rack onto the cake so she could turn it over to cool with the raised center up. To cool the cake a little quicker Momma carried the cake outside to a hand-washing stand just outside of the door where she often cooled her cakes and pies. While the cake cooled Momma placed another big round cake in the oven and then continued making more batter. Soon it was time for Momma to bring the cake in because the one in the oven would be ready to cool. The bake, cool, trim and wrap routine began.
Momma first removed the cake from the oven and then set it to cool on the cake rack. Next, she placed some smaller size cakes in the oven and then headed outside for the original large tier. Within just a moment I heard a loud scream and then a fearless order-
“You mangy cat, get-go away-GD how dare you eat my cake!”
Next, I heard the swishing sound of a broom flying overhead and brushing against the wooden post of the washstand. I quickly looked out the window as I saw Momma with broom in hand chasing one of thirty cats that lived in our barn. As the cat, a very well groomed tabby passed the gate leading into the lane that gave the cat a quick get-a-way to the barn.
This cat, as well as, the others lived in the barn. They controlled the mice population on the farm. Each night my mother made their dinner, a large pot of Oatmeal mixed with the day’s table scraps. After Momma prepared their supper she set it aside to cool before she took it to the barn to feed the cats. At feeding time, the felines came tumbling in from their homes in the haymow or in the bins of oats and scampered around her legs until she would divide the food in three different containers. .
As Momma arrived at the gate that allowed the cat a speedy get-a-way, she stopped and leaned onto the gate for just a moment. Head down, broom dragging, she turned and headed back to the house grumbling.
Upon her arrival into the kitchen with the cake I quickly questioned: “Momma, what are you going to do?” Then I looked at the cake and realized the cat had eaten the whole area in the center of the cake that had mounded as it had baked. Momma set the cake down on the table, went to the cupboard for a cup and poured herself a cup of coffee.
She asked me to be quiet and then drank her coffee one tiny sip at a time. Her right foot wrapped around her left foot and somehow she was able to tap the floor; tapping steadily and quietly matched the intense look on her face and how she swallowed each cup. When she finished her coffee, she took the cup to the sink and washed it. As she returned to the table where I was sitting, she picked up her long serrated knife and trimmed a thin layer from the entire cake. Then she smiled at me and said, “Honey, Momma doesn’t have time to make this cake over so we are going to use it! A little cat nibble isn’t going to hurt anything. Help Momma wrap it and then throw these crumbs out! ” Remember little man, we have lots more cake to bake, cool and wrap!”
The morning passed quickly as we continued to bake and wrap the cakes. When the batter was all made Momma told me I was in charge of watching them bake, cooling and then wrapping them. Momma began making the fillings and her special butter cream frosting. When we were all done Momma told me to take a little break and go play. As I reached the door she stopped me and said,
“Buzzie, this is our little secret-No One Needs to Know.”
That afternoon Momma frosted and decorated my sister’s birthday. In the evening, she began cooking for the birthday dinner. During supper, I never said a word. Occasionally Momma would touch me and give me a secret little smile.
At the dinner and then the reception, the cake sat regally in the center of the table, decorated with garlands of white butter cream, pale pink roses and light green leaves. Oh, it was so pretty and I knew it would taste equally as good. Momma was right; there was no need to tell any one. If Momma had decided to throw the cake away, my sister would probably have had a much smaller, less elegant cake. In the end, we were all happy and my Mother was smiling. The guests raved over how great the cake was and how wonderful my mother was at entertaining!
So often as Momma made graceful swirls with the frosting on a cake I thought, “Just think if I know how to do that, well then, I can lick even more frosting than Momma gives me”. Of course, if I tried to eat too much, she would stop me, but oh, how I wished I could do all those things. Unfortunately I did not understand how much there was to learn if you wanted to cook and bake! I wished, yet somewhere in side me I knew I didn’t realize how much I had to learn, nor did I comprehend how much time would be needed learn all the intricacies of cooking and baking!
I continually daydreamed about cooking and baking, yet I was afraid to ask my parents because I knew my father wouldn’t allow me to anything and unfortunately my mother rarely tried to change his mind.’ I needed a good plan to be successful and finally one formed in my mind.
On the morning of my mother’s birthday in 1957, she and my father left for most of the day. They said they would return in the afternoon. It was the second time they left my sister and I alone on the farm and this time they would be gone a long time; it would be enough time for me to make a cake—a cake for my mother’s birthday.
Just as soon as they left, I begged my sister to turn on the oven for me. She was twelve and I 10. Although we were close in age, she knew how to light the oven. My sister gave me the third degree about the oven and wanted to know what I was going to do. I told her I wanted to make Momma a birthday cake. She questioned how could I since I had never baked. In my little baby brother voice, I asked if she would make sure I read the recipe properly and check if the ingredient’s measurements.
The oven was on. All that I had to do now was get the ingredients ready for my sister to check. Happiness spread across my face in a big grin. Everything was going great! When I was done preparing my sister checked things out and gave me the go ahead. She also told me to be very careful!
As I mixed the ingredients, I questioned the term “cream” next to the butter and the sugar, but continued putting all the ingredients into the bowl all at once. It was difficult for me to stir everything together but I did the best that I could. I put the batter into the pans and placed the cake in the oven. The last thing to do was to set the stove timer so I would not forget to take the cake out in time.
Without another thought, I ran from the house to play in an old summer kitchen that was a distance from the house. Time passed and I continued to play. After a while longer, I glanced at my Roy Rodgers watch and saw that more time had passed than what I had set on the stove time. I returned, breathlessly, to the house and opened the kitchen door with trepidation and excitement. This was my first baking adventure and it had to be good!
As I slowly opened the kitchen door, I smelled something strange. I bent slightly, potholders in hand, to reach for the Roper oven door. I pulled the handle down to look at my cake. Inside the dark Roper oven the shiny aluminum pans, glimmered against the badly burnt and flat cakes inside. The edges were black, as well as the center of the cake. Huge tears flowed down my checks in rivulets of anguish. I cried so loud my sister came running. We both decided it was best to get rid of the evidence. She told me to take the cakes outside and dump them somewhere.
When Momma and Daddy arrived home, the kitchen was clean and cool as it was when they left. Daddy went out by the barn and Momma came to the house. As she entered the house, she stopped immediately, looked at me and asked, “Where is the chocolate cake?” I broke down in tears! Momma took my hand and asked if I had been baking. I nodded yes. She then asked to see what I had made. Eventually I took her hand and led her to the pig bucket under the big tree. Momma looked inside, smiled and motioned to return to the house.
We walked hand in hand back to the house. My tears continued. Inside she wiped the tears from my cheeks and told me if I wanted to bake then she would teach me. Next, she gave me a kiss and a hug. From that day on, every Saturday Momma taught me something new to make. The next Saturday we made the cake. This time Momma had a birthday cake from me!
A writing from 1996–A story that is still a part of of me.
August 14, 1968–Pleiku, Vietnam–the Lowlands
As I awaken this morning, I remember last night’s sultry air seemed denser than usual; the ominous raindrops fell on our plastic ponchos forming our tent, (the rain, always tepid, never just falls, it seems to wrap around us), closing in the tiny space and providing no exit. If I crawled out of this little prison, the threatening, pitch blackness and solemn quietude (except for the rain) would push me back inside. While unable to sleep, I glanced at Wade; his restless slumber was accented by tense muscles forming lines at his eyes and mouth. I knew he must also be apprehensive of our daily unknown destinations. Filled with burdened thoughts I curled up on my air mattress waiting for sleep to lighten the blackness; tiny streams of rain trickled from between the poncho’s snappers, forming puddles that ran into my boot.
Wade had already left our tent and as I get up I see the sun is intensifying, trying to penetrate the dense, grayness surrounding our camp. Next door a small Vietnamese village, thought to be a VC stronghold, is surrounded with green rice paddies, Bamboo trees and grass huts. It is hard to imagine the village inhabitants (Montagnards or Mountain People) are supporting the VC. As I gaze at them working in the rice fields, I can not believe they would freely hide our enemy; someone who could kill me at any time.
Today, I’ll quickly have a can of tasteless, compressed turkey, biscuit and bitter instant coffee, next Wade and I will tear down our tent and help break apart the squad’s bunker; then I’ll dry and oil my M-16, check the battery in the radio, repack the back-pack, grab everything, and get into formation, (our routine is never broken). One person from our squad will be selected as the point man, the rest of us will follow; walking toward today’s unknown destination.
Angelo, a close buddy, calls hello as I join my squad. He says hello rather than good morning; “good” mornings were left back home. A moment later Squad Sergeant Anderson tells Angelo he must pull point, (unfounded guilt rises in me, I carry the platoons radio and never pull point, yet Angelo never expects me to; he knows the radio operator can be as much a target as the point)–walking away he looks over his shoulder, shrugs and says, “Let’s go, all I want is to sleep tonight,”–picks up his helmet and places it haphazardly over a head of wavy, coal black hair. Smiling back at him, I hope his wish comes true.
An hour later the early sun is hidden by the forest’s massive canopy; one by one we follow Angelo hearing the crisp slice of his machete as it cuts through vines and branches. Each of my steps sends my boots further into the shifting, moist earth covered with fallen leaves and moss, smelling of decay: human, animal and vegetable, making me feel like I am in a doorless tomb.
Pop-zing, Pop-zing–I don’t respond, then realize we are being fired upon and quickly drop to the ground–my helmet falls from my head; I desperately reach for the red plastic protective tip on the barrel of my M-16, (Stupid, I’m just plain stupid to cover the tip of the barrel with a plastic cap to keep out the mud). The first round passes through the barrel of the rifle and melts the red plastic tip; I watch in frightened fascination as gooey plastic falls to the ground. The gunfire cracking through the air, pierces my stupor and reality returns. Spectacular bursts of gold, red and blue flash in the trees before me. Between the bursts I look for faces, but none are seen, yet I know they are dangerously close.
I keep the radio receiver close to my ear so that I can hear incoming messages. The Captain is calling for an air strike, (when we are trapped we call the air strike our salvation)! The bursts of gold, red and blue become more intense; everyone around me is yelling, so far everyone is okay. Angelo, still in the point position is followed by Don and Wade. Following me is Sergeant Anderson. I try not to think and tell myself to fire my rifle and listen to the radio, yet a prayer keeps slipping into my mind….”Dear God, help me through this!”
Suddenly I feel an unexpected weight on me and yell “Sarge, get off my butt–move it damn it!” He doesn’t move and I decide to turn and push him off. As I turn, I see on the ground a white bone in a pool of red blood, his arm hangs lifelessly at his side without the elbow, his eyes blankly stare at me and I realize he is dead. Selfishly I panic for a moment when I realize I am alone to deal with the incoming radio messages, rather than being able to rely on Sergeant Anderson for the details.
The first volley from the air strike arrives to far away, filling the air with iridescent red sulphur gas. The damn gold, red, and blue bursts of VC fire continue. Then my radio demands my attention with the Captain calling me from the Command Post , I respond–”This is Alpha Bravo, the air strike is too far away–200 meters to far–you fucking gotta bring it in closer..do you copy?”…….As I await his answer, another explosion bursts in the distance and echoes over the radio; I know it isn’t the sound from one of our Bazooka’s; the echoed sound of the explosion and the quiet radio tells me the command post has been hit. I call once more for a reply, “Alpha, Alpha Command, this is Alpha Bravo–Do you read me?” Alpha Command do you Read?”
A moment later the radio’s infamous squelch is followed by, “Alpha Bravo, this is Yankee Clipper–the Alpha Command has been hit, we need your coordinates for our next round of fire, Do you Copy?” Wade, Don and I confer before I radio our exact location to the Yankee Clipper. The pilot responds, “Alpha Bravo, this is Yankee Clipper, you gotta be kidding—we’ll use our own coordinates to volley the next two rounds!”
June, 1996–Arizona
During the past twenty eight years, Yankee Clipper’s message has disturbingly echoed in my thoughts. I continually have questioned why the crew of the Yankee Clipper did not believe our location. I remember screaming our location was correct; moments later as I heard ear shattering bombs bursting and throwing shards of metal, trunks of trees, and swirling clumps of earth around us, I knew Hell must be more pleasant. Fear gripped my soul, the sickening odor of nitrites filled my nose, my eyes burned from smoke and dirt; and my heart begged for mercy. I remember suddenly feeling that if I was to survive I had to become a part of the jungle floor. While I attempted to merge by body with the ground I was also desperately calling the Yankee Clippper to stop. Now as I look back, I am sure the crew of the Yankee Clipper felt they were not in error, yet that day I was in shocked disbelief. During the second volley I had turned my head left as I heard the whiz of shrapnel fly overhead. Angelo had been thrown by the volley and was now lying face down beside me–I only remember seeing his wavy, coal black hair on a ravaged body, a picture that still bothers me today–the ragged, deep edges of the wound and the unrecognizable muscles leading to his organs were bloodless, forming abstract patterns over his skeleton.
I recall the following moment was uncannily quiet, to be broken by Wade’s piercing, painful cry for help; a sentinel marking the moment I realized my friends were dead or near death’s door. I am sure it was this realization that let my tears well-up in my eyes and then dry before they reached my cheek. During that fleeting moment I understood for the first time how fragile life is. Even though I was very young I questioned how life could be cut short for some, while others are able to flourish.
By the afternoon we thought our crisis had passed, but we were to find out disaster would return, even more morbidly than it had in the morning. The Med-i-Vac choppers hovered over the desecrated jungle, we survivors and the Med-i-Vac team carefully wrapped Angelo and the other dead in the sinister black bags and placed the wounded on stretchers. Both were then tied into metal baskets attached to the ropes hanging from the helicopters. As six choppers raised twelve baskets over our heads the VC opened fire on the baskets. I remember falling to my knees as I realized they were attacking our dead and wounded, letting us watch in surprised terror…..this time tears began to run freely down my cheeks. Wade was one of those in the baskets; halfway to the chopper I saw an arm fall out of the basket. As I kneeled on the ground crying I prayed he was still alive. Today I still pray he was not hit.
By the time dusk arrived there were six survivors out of a company of one hundred fifty. A relief company had been sent in to secure the area. Even with the relief company’s arrival we did not feel safe. We six survivors huddled next to each other in a darkened tent, not feeling a part of a company or even part of a caring society. Today I feel much the same as I did that night, questioning how our destinies are decided and seeing life as a collection of accidental happenings. I am still as skeptical as I was that night if any one can imagine the torment we felt. I know Angelo and the others would not question why we survived, and if, by chance I had died I would not have questioned that they had lived. Yet, it is still difficult for me to explain why grieving parents must question why it was their son that had to die.
If the other five survivors have been like me their stories have never been told. Now, I think it is time to close the chapter by sharing the tragic irony with you. During our next months, while we waited to finish our tour in Vietnam, we realized the Viet Cong wasn’t our only enemy. Today I firmly believe our survival was determined by the sequence of life’s accidental happenings.
The following day a petite Mexican with auburn hair, big, brown, twinkling eyes, upturned nose, and heart-shaped lips arrived for the appointment. As I walked through the house with her she reminded me of a fluttering butterfly, never stopping long enough to really see anything, although by the time the tour had finished she seemed happy with the house and me. She wanted to know when she could start. As soon as we had agreed on wages and a day to begin, Beatrice said she wanted to leave, but rather than heading for the front door she headed down the hall to the guest room. Before I could say a thing she asked,
“How did you tell me to get here?
Her question perplexed me since I thought she should have asked where the front door was. I don’t think she realized she was heading in the wrong direction; I redirected her and then told her how to get home. After she left I wondered if she would remember me the next day!
During the first few weeks at work I found Beatrice to be reliable, energetic, caring, funny, but hard to train:
- trash cans never emptied!
- mop bucket never used–the kitchen sink is preferred!
- mountains of soggy, soiled towels smell of gallons of Windex and Ammonia!
- vacuum cleaner rendered useless (its bag is so full it nearly bursts!)
Within fifteen minutes of her arrival, Beatrice begins unraveling a troubling tale about a problem she has encountered at home. Usually I try to help her solve her personal problems, but occasionally I am at a loss at how to help her understand she has created many of them herself. Little tragedies also occur while she cleans our house, once again caused by naive awareness–her naivete is awesome.
Shortly after she started working for us, Beatrice arrived bundled in three sweaters, leggings, crew socks, and boots. She trundled in, set her purse on the chair, shivered and said,
“I’m so cold, aren’t you?”
Concerned, (since it was one of those crisp Arizona winter mornings) I asked Beatrice if the car’s heater was broken…it wasn’t, the driver’s side window was broken. I offered to call a window shop and arrange for them to have her window fixed while she was at work. She peeled off the sweaters one by one, continued to look distressed, and replied,
“It’s not that window, I was so-ooo cold last night.”
Confused, I questioned, “What do you mean it’s not the car window and why were you cold last night?”
She clarified, “You know I live on a street corner, well, you know my apartment is on the corner, anyway, this guy, well, he drove into my living room last week and the landlord says he can’t do anything until he gets the insurance money!”
“Wait”, I asked, “what do you mean a car drove into your living room, you mean he broke a window?”
She timidly responded, “No, I mean he drove into my house, there is a big hole in my wall and all the furniture was knocked over and broken!” Shocked, I asked her if she was actually living in an insecure apartment and what did she mean the landlord couldn’t do anything until the insurance company paid him.
Her response was “Well, that’s what he says–do you have a blanket I can use tonight, my children have mine!”
Once, as I passed through the master bathroom, I saw Beatrice fanning herself as she perched precariously on the side of the tub while cleaning it. She stopped cleaning for a moment, plopped to the floor, looked at me with her big brown eyes, (drops of sweat formed on her brow plastering whiffs of auburn hair to her forehead and exhaustively said,
“Gosh, it’s so hot today, don’t you think so?”
I asked her to look up at the ceiling and tell me what she saw. Her big brown eyes turned to the ceiling, an eyebrow arched, then she jumped up and swatted the light above her head with a damp cleaning rag. Stunned, I asked her what she was doing-
“Oh I thought you wanted me to dust the light.”
To this day she doesn’t understand the light is a heat lamp. Each week I check to see if she understands and each week I see whiffs of plastered hair on her forehead. Each week I turn off the heat lamp!
On another occasion Beatrice arrived looking hassled and defeated, her brown eyes were cast with grey, two crows feet perched on her forehead, and flared nostrils vented steam. I was impressed, frustration might glean a spark of awareness; a moment later tears rolled down her cheeks and this time a rag doll plunked down on the big green chair. I handed her a tissue to mop the giant tears from her face. She had needed new tires for her car, the slick mechanic told her she needed a different size tire, one larger than her original tires, (I’m sure she trusted his judgment without question!) When she picked up her car he had cut 3 inches off the fender so the tires would fit!
“They said to me, ‘Lady we do it to everyone,’” then shrugging her shoulders she continued, “what do I know!”
Surprisingly, there is another side to Beatrice. She is devoted to her children and is as protective a mother as a mare is to her foal. I have even been astounded by her strong independence, (now divorced, she wisely prefers to raise her children alone than depend on the help of their useless father). She even tries to help her sister-in-law leave her brother, a man who beats his wife.
Yesterday Beatrice brought her son along to work because she didn’t want him to be home alone. Soon after their arrival Beatrice pointed to an ugly bruise on her son’s nose and asked,
“Can you break a nose?–when he jumped in the pool he kept his eyes closed!”
“Of course you can break a nose,” I answered.
“You can?–Gee Whiz!” chirped her son.
I looked at Mother and Son and saw two Beatrices standing side by side, each with big brown eyes and heart-shaped lips!
